


The Show Must Go On

by moodyblueangel



Category: Victoria (TV)
Genre: Fix-It of Sorts, M/M, Set during 2x08 before swerving off track
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-13
Updated: 2018-08-07
Packaged: 2019-02-14 11:41:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 21,349
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13007031
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moodyblueangel/pseuds/moodyblueangel
Summary: While learning some horrifying news about Drummond, Alfred looks back at their relationship and all the moments that made them reach this point.For templehill, twocandles, stardustweare88, animateglee





	1. My Soul Is Painted Like The Wings of Butterflies

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Whydidtheydothis](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Whydidtheydothis/gifts), [animateglee](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=animateglee), [twocandles](https://archiveofourown.org/users/twocandles/gifts).



The incessant chime of the longstanding grandfather clock pulled Lord Alfred’s attention away from the delicate touch of the red petal he had been rolling in his fingers. The perfumed oils emitted from the flower had given his fingertips a soft texture and he absently wiped them against his napkin. Craning his head to the left, he could see that the hands of the clock had now reached the eighth hour. Feeling as anxious and excited as he could ever remember feeling, he had arrived early at the restaurant. He had now been sitting at the table for ninety minutes, nursing his glass of brandy, aware that he must be the topic of curious glances and whispered rumours. It was not unusual for a gentleman to dine alone at Ciros, but certainly the fact that he had yet to order from the menu was considered peculiar.

As the waiter yet again passed his table with a questioning glance, Alfred let the cruel truth of his solitude creep into his brain. He wasn’t coming. He picked at the petal of the flower again, this time with enough force that it was extracted from its source. It seemed to float down to the crisp, white table cloth, soaking it suddenly in crimson. Alfred had felt certain when he had sent the note, arranging to meet at the same restaurant, that Drummond would turn up. He knew the other man too well. For the past few years, he had spent almost all his time either being with or thinking about him. He could tell the twinkle in his eye when he was excited about an idea, the bow of his head when he found the Queen’s responses to the Prime Minister tedious and the tightening of his jaw when he was frustrated with something he couldn’t do anything about. 

That’s what made Drummond’s blanking of him during the ride out with Prince Albert so devastating. The Prime Minister’s secretary barely looked at him. Alfred had always felt like the two men’s eyes were like magnets, automatically compelled together, meant for only each other with nothing able to tear them apart. It killed him inside to see Drummond so angry at him. Furious with the whole situation really. The younger man saw things in such black and white terms sometimes, he didn’t understand that it wasn’t as easy as impulsively throwing themselves into the unknown. With another jolt of sudden anger, he quickly pulled another petal off the withering flower, crinkling it in his fingers harshly before depositing it on the table, again blotting the clean surface.

He didn’t tell Drummond to keep his fiancé because he was confused over his feelings for the other man, or ashamed of them. Alfred just knew that he had to be the rational one; the one thinking clearly, taking a step back and leaving a breath before hurtling into something potentially destructive for both their lives. He wasn’t even worried for himself. He was in a good position for his standing and flourished within the Royal household, but if he lost all that it wouldn’t break his heart. Drummond was going places. To some people it may look like he spent his days hobnobbing at the Palace or following Sir Peel around, but Alfred knew that he was sharp and had unbridled enthusiasm for his work. Not everyone always agreed with what Drummond had to say, but when he spoke, people listened. A quiet filled the air and his words absorbed into their depths. 

There would be talk. He knew that. He’d known that before. Idle whispers about such things, never dared spoken to more than one set of ears. He was a bachelor, but a military man and in service to the crown. It was rare, but not altogether unusual for a man like himself to not have a bride. Marriage would inconvenience his job and his dedication to the Royal family. People could see that. People saw that. A situation like his would stop any mutterings and murmurs. For Drummond it was different though. He was in politics and in order to move any further up the track, he must present himself as a man with prospects, joining into a respected family that would give him a helping hand on his road to glory. Politics was a dirty business full of tarnished men and Alfred hated the thought of his sweet, eager boy being pulled in by sharpened hands, twisting around his soul like a vine, trying to manipulate his whole outlook on life. Drummond was a good person; too good. Alfred knew that he would have more of an influence on the political stage, than it would on him.

Even with a doting wife from a reputable family and bouncing babies at home, it would be an uphill struggle for Drummond to reach the top. How could he ever even hope to aim for there after breaking off an arranged match? The Marquess had friends in all the right places. Not only would they refuse to give Drummond the time of day, but they would outright exile him. He would be finished in politics. That would even be before the mutterings started enquiring why the Private Secretary to the Prime Minister and the Chief Equerry to the Royal household frequently dined together. ‘Did you see them at that party? Inseparable! Why only last week I saw them strolling through the park at an ungodly hour.’ 

Frankly, it shocked Alfred that nothing had yet been said about them. Although all these years, he was hard pressed to define their relationship himself, he could somewhat see it through others’ eyes. A great friendship, he was sure that was how most saw it. As close as brothers, perhaps others had viewed it. A convenient meeting of minds by young men who both had the ear of power, the more cynical observers may speculate. They were all blinkered views though. People seeing what they wanted or thought they should see. A mirage of smoke and mirrors. If people looked, really looked, how could they not notice the soft smiles they gave each other, that made Alfred tingle from the edge of his finger tips and beyond. Did they not hear the coquettish words that made them each blush on the blossom of their cheeks? Why couldn’t they see how their eyes fell upon each other, turning ballrooms full of people into empty spaces where only they resided?

A third petal was now picked, borne from the frustration at both wanting people to acknowledge what Drummond and he were, but the fear of them finding out, and the bubble they were safely cocooned in smashing to pieces around them. What were they anyway? Thinking about how he had used the word ‘indiscretion’ to describe what was between them, well that really left a bitter taste in Alfred’s mouth. He didn’t mean to say it. He was trying to be discreet in his chatter, hoping Drummond would understand the reluctance. Instead, his words left his mouth like daggers, each further one breaking the other man’s heart.

Two gentlemen were suddenly seated on the table behind him. Alfred knew them by association, enough to exchange pleasantries with. However, he felt no mood for it tonight. He knew this was strange for him; gallantry, politeness and a warm smile were always expected and received. There was only one person in the world that could raise a smile from him tonight though, and he had yet to walk through the door.

“Well, he did it! Could you believe that happened? Browning was beside himself. Two hours later and he’s still positively steaming,” one of the gentleman started, at they were served their drinks. Alfred’s ears pricked at the conversation as he went on caressing the final petal.

“I told, you! I told you and Browning both. I don’t know what Peel did, but he’s a sly one. He’d always make sure the vote would go his way,” the other diner replied, chuckling to himself.

The vote. Alfred’s heart clenched. He had hoped that the reason Drummond hadn’t turned up was because the debate and the vote were still on going. Maybe he couldn’t possibly leave without explaining why and he would send a note later that night apologising profusely. Perhaps he would let him know he would be at the palace the next day to deliver some papers and they could discuss it further. That wasn’t the case though. According to these gentlemen, the vote had been called hours ago. There would have been nothing left for Drummond to do. The pessimistic thoughts now snowballed in Alfred’s head. He realised that even if the vote had still been going on and Drummond was still at work, then he could have still sent word concerning his absence. They had both done it before, sending messages when they were going to be even slightly late to a meeting, not wanting to ever miss a moment without the other there.

Alfred ripped the final petal off the flower and looked at the barren stalk, destroyed without mercy or feeling, harsh and alarming without it’s joyful beauty. He tucked this last petal into his jacket, a morbid reminder of something wonderful that had been torn apart. With that, he left the table and any remaining hope behind him.


	2. It's Always a Rainy Day Without You

The moon seemed to be hiding from him tonight. Shying away behind the wispy wave of the clouds. This left Alfred only a little light on his walk home. He refused the offer of a carriage from the restaurant, knowing he would feel stifled in the enclosed space. His mind was racing and he couldn’t bear to let it take his thoughts down a darker road, needing the harsh hit of the air to remain focused.

Besides, carriages were a reminder of him. How could he glance over at the empty space without the thudding of his heart screaming out at the thought of him not being there? Not wanting to be there. 

The shadows enclosed him now, surrounding him, leaping from each side of the pavement. The buildings of London that ordinarily seeming bustling and bright, were like ghosts looming over him. The scattered greenery of the gardens had lost their lushness and were darkened; they were brushing into him with their outstretched branches, sharp like the hands of demons trying to pull him in. How lost the flowers looked. Shrivelled into the night scenery. The sweet fragrance and the fanciful dancing of the daytime had all disappeared, instead they were as still as stone. Statues frozen in time.

Was it always like this? He had never noticed before. With Drummond, everything seemed to be coated in a warm, golden shine. It cascaded from him and seeped into everything in the surrounding area. Every day seemed to be bathed in sunshine. The light gently pressing down on his body and enclosing his skin, like a perfect embrace. He had felt that way since they first met. 

\---------------------------------------------------------------------------

11th January 1841 - Buckingham Palace

Alfred passed by the window and glanced out. The raindrops clinging to the glass were being ushered back into the sky, as the clouds were suddenly starting to part, letting the sun join in the fun. He had become absolutely drenched on his ride this morning, the rain becoming relentless for the fifth day in a row. As he strode further within the castle, he noticed a figure in the distance, making its way closer. He immediately recognised it as Queen Victoria’s husband, Albert.

“I am meeting with the Prime Minister. Would you care to join us, Lord Alfred?” asked the Prince, dashing up the hallway.

Frankly, Alfred didn’t. He had his own work to do and then he wished to settle at the piano for the evening, “Is there something you needed advice on, Sir?”

“To be honest, the Queen would like an intermediary there. She is growing tired in her confinement and feels like Peel and I are going to dramatically alter the country in her absence,” he explained with the roll of his eyes, clearly frustrated at what had obviously been a long debate with his wife. “She trusts you as a voice of reason, as do I.”

To object to a polite and casual request by the Prince was one thing, but he would never outright refuse an order from the Queen. “Of course, Your Highness. When will the Prime Minister arrive?”

“He is waiting in my writing room as we speak.”

As they began to swiftly walk down the hallway, Alfred thought it may be an opportune time to ask a favour. “Sir, I wonder if I may bequeath a request upon you? It’s concerning my brother Septimius’ commission- “

“I shall look into it, Lord Alfred, leave the information on my desk,” he replied hurriedly and turned the door handle, striding into the room, “Ah, good morning, gentlemen.” Albert briskly boomed, almost bounding over to the two men. Of course, Alfred knew Sir Robert Peel and had met him several times before. He found the Prime Minister pleasant enough, and the Prince clearly enjoyed his company. However, there was now a second man by his side. Alfred was sure he would have remembered seeing him before.

“Good morning, Your Highness,” Peel started, “May I introduce to you my new private secretary, Edward Drummond.” Alfred couldn’t help but stare at the young man, long and lean with a soft curl of tawny hair gently falling over his brow. He bowed a little to the Prince as a greeting, a small smile appearing at his cupid bow lips, before flushing up to his warm, dark eyes, which twinkled like Venus in the night sky. Alfred noticed that the man’s long fingers rubbed the edge of the slightly battered folder he clutched onto. Only a little, just betraying his nerves at being in the Royal household. His face never gave it away though. He held Albert’s gaze before returning to full height.

When Alfred was eight years old, he sat in his mother’s dressing room one bright, summer evening as she prepared for dinner. As she was getting ready, she hummed the most marvellous harmonies and, every now and then, she would come over and ruffle his hair, caress his cheek or kiss him on the edge of his nose. While he was listening to her sweet lyrical voice, he stared at the yellow rose in the vase on her vanity table. It had been freshly picked from the garden, with still a hint of dew on the petals. The flower was a mellow gold, with just the hint of pure white at the tips. It fluttered in the light of the mid-summer evening. Alfred always thought it was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. Until today.

He was so lost in thought, that he didn’t notice Drummond now turn towards him. He barely had time to focus on his face as he realised he was approaching him, reaching out his hand. Alfred’s heart seemed to have a menagerie of rabbits, frogs and butterflies blooming inside it. His limbs felt like they were filled with sand, unable to move with any sort of grace or precision. He finally breathed in and was able to lift his hand and look the other man in the eye.

“Edward Drummond, it’s a pleasure to meet you,” the object of his attention introduced himself as. As he finished his sentence he slipped his hand beside Alfred’s outstretched one. The warmth emulating from it was already burrowing its way into his skin and spreading through his body like wildfire. After what felt like an eternity, but must have only been milliseconds, Alfred tightly gripped the other man’s hand, lifting his own up and down. He felt like if their bodies were to fade and decay away right there and then, their souls would still stay fused together, unable to be broken by time.

“Lord Alfred Paget, “he responded, his own voice sounding foreign to his ears, “The pleasure is all mine.” He felt Drummond gently run his pinkie finger down the lifeline of his palm and then slowly take back his own hand. Alfred felt it’s loss already, although only just knowing the feeling and only for a few seconds, he now felt barren and incomplete.

The meeting did not last long. The prince was suggesting a new idea to the prime minister, which Sir Peel kindly, cleverly and cautiously declined. Drummond only spoke once more, to respond to a question Peel asked about a vote in Parliament the following week. His voice was warm and thick, like the most glorious amber honey, Alfred noticed. Its tone reached his ears, remaining there as if delivered by the song of the sweet skylark.

Once the Prime Minister had assured the Prince that he would absolutely be back in touch shortly, and if he reconsidered the idea he would let him know at once, he passed on his well wishes for the Queen and the baby. Then both men headed towards the hallway, Peel’s secretary following closely behind. Alfred couldn’t bear the thought of not hearing that sumptuous tone again, and grabbed his opportunity as Drummond passed him to follow his employer out the door.

“I hope you liked what you saw of the palace, Mr Drummond. Will you be returning soon?” he asked, feeling thankful that his voice was smooth and light and did not betray the fact that his body was aching with eagerness. 

Drummond turned, put one hand on the door frame as the other still gripped his folder. He seemed to hesitate for just a second, placing his enquiring eyes on the other man, before cocking his head ever so slightly to one side, “Oh, you couldn’t keep me away, Lord Alfred. It was a most satisfying experience.”

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------

 

Alfred’s feet had betrayed him. He got caught up in playing a memory, feeling the lingering emotion and sentiment for just a moment, but it was slowly disappearing like the taste of a sweet kiss. Now, he found himself nearing Parliament; the invisible tethering pulling him closer and closer to where he wanted to be. His rational mind told him to stop and force his will from this place. The only thing keeping him going was the fact that thinking sensibly is what had left him feeling this discombobulated in the first place.

Alfred could hear the single clack of his shoes suddenly become accompanied by other players. The solitary streets were becoming busier the nearer he reached Parliament. With the vote over, he found it strange that there were so many people around the building, but there was nothing ordinary about this night. There was an awkwardness in his body, something that felt wrong, a parasite that was eating away at his insides, laying pieces of doubt and fear in his gut.

Just as he was turning the corner to reach the building a sudden pressure reached his shoulder. He jumped quickly, turning to greet a familiar face.

“Good evening, Lord Alfred,” said the man. The jigsaw pieces in Alfred’s mind suddenly floated together as he placed the gentleman as a politician whom he saw at the club on occasion. Bromley. That was his name. His head was slowly catching up with him. Bromley continued, “Such a terrible business. I was inside myself when it happened. Do you know if the family have been told?”

Alfred felt that perhaps his brain had not quite settled into its usual state after all. He didn’t know why, but the hairs on his arms were starting to stand up. He felt like a deer during hunting season. He couldn’t see or hear danger in front of him, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t there. He looked inquisitively at his acquaintance.

“My apologies, Sir, I’m afraid I don’t quite know what you mean,” he responded, begging the man to mutter something inconsequential.

“Why, surely you must have heard? The news is all over town. I felt certain the Queen must have been told and sent you here. There’s been a shooting, right outside Parliament,” he said, pointing to the building down the street.

Alfred strained his eyes to look further down the road. He could see men surveying the area. There was a shadow on the pavement, outside the building. This one looked different to the intimidating shapes that plagued his walk earlier. This was glistening sadistically, a burgundy tinge signalling into the night. He felt like it was calling his name, taunting him with a secret that he didn’t want to hear. 

“A shooting? At Parliament? Was anyone seriously hurt?” he enquired, the words having to claw their way from his mouth. They felt like the remains of a toffee sticking to the roof above his tongue, clagging and obstructing his airway and means of breathing.

“Oh dear,” Bromley said apologetically, shifting from foot to foot, “I am sorry to tell you this, I know he was a friend to the palace.”

Alfred could now feel the background behind the gentleman start to blur, like a street painting being washed away by the rain, as he picked up on the terrifying connotations of the man’s words. “Was?” he asked.

“Yes, I’m afraid so. The Prime Minister’s boy. Drummond. He’s dead.”


	3. But Touch My Tears With Your Lips, Touch My World With Your Fingertips

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm still promising that Drummond doesn't die, but in this chapter Alfred thinks that he has, so not always easy going.

Alfred felt like a veil had encased his mind, slowly covering up everything else apart from the words he had just heard. Bromley was still speaking next to him, his voice flashing in and out like a fading candle. The other man was now patting his shoulder, Alfred muttered up a thank you and started to move his feet away. That seemed like such an empty phrase, but he had no words. They were all gone, lost in the air and time. Trembling away, his legs felt like two lone reeds and he could suddenly feel them giving way. His unsteady hand grabbed on to a wall nearby and he managed to slowly lower himself to the ground.

This didn’t feel real. He had seen Drummond yesterday, sitting on his horse, all poise and proper, like a perfect, infallible gentleman. Flesh and blood and passion and stubbornness all astride, all radiating out; the most perfect thing in all of London. It would feel like the most natural act in the world to see Drummond wander out of Parliament, while he was waiting for him, like they had done before. They made it look like a coincidence. As if they had just run into each other by accident, not raising the suspicions of anyone around. Just two friends greeting each other, both brought together by their grins, their jacket sleeves brushing just gently next to each other.

This was not like any other time. Alfred was now crumbled down in a doorway, his arm braced against the wall. Bromley’s words now echoing around his head, branding his mind like a cattle prod; scarring and searing. ‘Dived in front of the bullet’. That’s what the gentleman had said. That part he remembered. Stupid, idiotic boy. Why would he do that? Why did he feel the need to just impulsively act and not think about the consequences? He had warned Drummond about this, pleading with him to think things through. He never did though. He went around surmising about the benefits of falling down cliffs, not thinking twice about throwing himself into lakes in foreign lands and kissing Alfred with all the determination in the world, out in the open light air, where anyone could have seen them.

He threw himself in front of a bullet. He wasn’t thinking then. Alfred knew it. He wouldn’t have had time. With all those other acts, Drummond must have considered other options, but still took the extreme path. This time, he wouldn’t have realised. He would have just reacted. He couldn’t have possibly thought it through. He wished time would have stopped for him earlier, within that moment, and then the silly boy could have realised that it wasn’t the only option. That he could stay where he was and then come and meet Alfred at Ciros. He could have chosen for them to be together, rather than be brave and tear them apart. He knew that would have been his choice. He was prepared to give up everything for Alfred.

Drummond was brave though. Much more so than Alfred could ever dream to be. It was infectious, this dramatic, foolish and daring streak in the boy. It perhaps made him bolder too. He couldn’t think why he so eagerly removed his clothes to throw himself into the water, or why he kissed Drummond back with as much force as he received. He was a cautious man, he had to be. These were acts that other people did, not Alfred. He hated himself for his words at the restaurant now, his reluctance, the same as he hated Drummond’s intrinsic bravery at this very moment. He could have stopped this. He could have been more forthcoming at the restaurant. He was so concerned that being too brave was going to get them into trouble. He had to remind himself that it wasn’t flying too high that killed Icarus in the end, but drowning in the ocean.

Alfred looked up at the sky and could see one twinkling star, bursting through the murk of cloud and darkness. It was mocking him, delighting in it’s solitude, where he could find no joy in it. ‘Tis not content to so soon be alone.’ Even the line of verse brought back memories of Drummond and his audacious side.

 

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

Buckingham Palace – 1842

 

Standing at the window, peering through the white gardenias that dominated the space, Alfred spotted the carriage. It slowed to a stop and the door was opened, the unmistakable form of Drummond stepping out. He hadn’t seen him since the previous week, when they had teamed up to propose and advise the Queen to have a ball in support of the Spitalfield's silk industry.

Drummond started walking up to the door, gently adjusting his hat, his steps so dynamic that Alfred could almost hear the stones crunching underneath his feet. The other man lingered for a second, before rebelliously pulling a petal from one of the Queen’s favourite pink hyacinth plants. He thought back to a conversation they had only the other week. They both hated that plant and laughed about all the ways they could do away with it, without Victoria becoming suspicious. Alfred had jested that they should just do it slowly, remove one petal at a time to be inconspicuous. 

Drummond skipped up the few steps and disappeared from sight. Alfred’s heart dropped. When he couldn’t see him, it was like a beautiful summer’s day that had just become overcast. His heart always sunk when the other man was elsewhere. Memories of him were acceptable (how could he ever get that face and voice from his mind), but they were never so vivid as the real thing. The deep chocolate of his eyes, the rose tinting of his lithe lips. He was stunning, like seeing a Raphael painting in real life; glorious and breath taking in its simplistic beauty.

Alfred could hear light footsteps making their way up the corridor. He made his way out to the balcony. His fingers felt like they were ungrounded, twittering away as light as feathers. He pulled out a cigarette to have something tangible to hold on to and lighted it, taking in a long drag to pull him back to reality. He gently leaned against the balcony, needing that extra support as he heard the ever nearer steps beating as the same rhythm as his increasing heartbeat. Until suddenly they both stopped.

Drummond was standing there, a soft smile on his face and in his eyes. Clutching, as he almost always was, his work folder. 

“Lord Alfred,” he started, his voice like a blanket covering Alfred from head to toe. “I was just here to deliver some papers to the Queen. I’m glad to have run into you.”

It was the dance they did. Drummond knew that the palace would have been informed that he was to be expected. Alfred listened out for this news and made sure he was often coming down the stairs or waiting by the balcony at the convenient time.

He had moments of doubt when he wondered why someone like Drummond would take time out of his day, just for him. Surely it was just sometimes a coincidence that they drifted towards each other at these meetings. However, at times, and they were often very few and fuelled by alcohol, he felt sure that Drummond’s thoughts and feeling matched his own, whatever they may be. That every syllable that dropped from the other man’s mouth was deliberate in their meaning. They were simpatico with their words and hearts. He had been sitting in the drawing room yesterday reading volumes of poetry, every word no matter how vague, seemed to be written with this boy as a muse.

“Ah, Drummond. Good to see you too,” he managed to answer calmly, falling into the familiar pattern of their encounters.

“How are the preparations coming?” Drummond answered, keeping up the well-practiced façade of keeping the conversation to matters of work and palace life. Before Alfred had an opportunity to respond, a familiar face breezed through the open curtain to the balcony.

“Lord Alfred, there you are, we need to discuss…Oh. Hello, Mr. Drummond, I didn’t know you were at the palace. Is the Prime Minister here too?” Queen Victoria enquired, stepping out into the air.

“Good Morning, Ma’am,” the politician responded with a respectful bow, “No, it is just me I’m afraid, the Prime Minister needed some papers sent over to you.” With that Drummond started to fluster with his black folder, a book falling out onto the floor, before he produced some slightly crumpled letters and handing them to the Queen.

Victoria glanced at them, before raising her head again in a frown, “Oh these? Sir Robert knows I didn’t need these this week. He works you too hard, Drummond. You’re always here making deliveries. They could have easily been sent by messenger a few days from now.”

“Sir Robert didn’t ask me Ma’am. I offered as I felt that anything that required your perusal would always be of the up most importance.”

“Well, you are definitely working yourself too hard then, Mr Drummond. Isn’t he just foolish, Alfred, making more work for himself.”

“An absolute cad, Ma’am, “Alfred replied, raising his eyelids to sneak a glance at Drummond. He let a small smile creep upon his lips, which he was thrilled Drummond returned.

“Well, at least you have the ball to look forward to, Drummond. I don’t expect to see you do a fraction of work all night, do you hear me?” Victoria scolded. “Alfred, you must make sure he enjoys himself, that evening.”

“I shan’t take my eyes off him, Ma’am.” Alfred responded, knowing that it was the most achievable request the monarch had ever bequeathed upon him.

“Excellent. Ah, yes, Alfred I wanted to talk to you about the flowers to decorate the ball. I was thinking begonias. They are the most beautiful sight, don’t you think?

“I can think of only a few things more glorious, Your Majesty. What about you Drummond?” he said, turning to his friend.

“I think my breath will be taken away, Ma’am,” he replied, picking up the book he had dropped in his haste earlier.

“Well, I think we’re all in agreement then, wonderful. Now, I must go finish discussing arrangements about the outfits for Albert and I,” she continued, before exiting the balcony with a sweeping flourish.

Now they were alone, Alfred realised that Drummond’s purpose for being at the palace had passed. He didn’t want to let him go yet though, knowing that it would probably be an excruciating few days until they saw each other again. He glanced down at the book Drummond was still holding.

“You have time to do some reading, at least.” Alfred said with a nod towards the object.

“Research,” Drummond replied, waving the book in his hand, “I’m afraid I still haven’t been fitted for my costume for the ball.”

“No, nor I,” replied Alfred, “I believe my procrastination stems from not being able to make a final decision. I was considering perhaps a knight,” he said, although he thought the other man was much more befitting a costume of bravery and valour.

Drummond suddenly beamed and started thumbing through his book, “As was I. Here, I thought perhaps the silk weaver would be able to replicate this,“ he said, showing Alfred a picture of two knights standing together dressed in the same regalia.

Alfred brushed his thumb against his lip. Drummond had brought this book, knowing what outfit he wanted to replicate and if he was not entirely mistaken, he wanted Alfred to be in the matching outfit. He looked up to the other man’s face. He had the same look of delight as the Queen had yesterday when she was describing the outfits for her and the Prince.

“I think it’s perfect. For both of us,” Alfred said, hoping all his feelings would be portrayed in those few words. He loved the thought of being linked to Drummond at the ball, in a way everyone would accept. They could be on opposite sides of the room, yet still be connected. Although, Alfred often thought they could be at separate sides of the universe, but he would still feel Drummond’s presence next to him.

With an exuberance, Drummond quickly shut the book and placed it in his folder. “Excellent, I shall take the design to the weavers right away. I am thoroughly looking forward to this night, Lord Alfred,” he said clapping the other man on the arm.

Alfred felt like lightening just struck him, coursing through his body, giving him energy and verve. Drummond was always so full of life, he could feel it release into him. It felt sensual, manipulating his body in a way he had no control over and he was sure a light blush must be creeping into his cheeks. He looked Drummond in the eyes, which almost felt like looking straight at the sun, it was so overwhelming, “It is promising to be a most fruitful evening.” 

 

\----------------------------------------------------------------

 

He remembered the afternoon, after that meeting, retreating again to the drawing room, volumes of verse stacked up, but it was Keats who kept catching his eye. Lines of poetry were now scattered in his head, not quite matching up. He planted his hand against the wall, using the pressure to pull his weight up. It felt like his body and mind were separated. The cool cement of the plaster crept underneath his fingernails, gently stabbing, a thin pinprick of pain doing nothing to dull the ache that reverberated through him. Drummond hadn’t wanted to leave him, he had to stay connected to him somehow, afraid that his memories of him were suddenly going to blow away like the autumn leaves; one by one until there was nothing left, just a sterile, empty branch.

Alfred had to go to where it happened, where he last was, hoping and begging to find a lingering of him there. Something tangible he could hold on, grab with two hands and pull into him. He walked further and further up the road towards Parliament. The shadows were becoming clearer now, with the increase of light from the buildings, their outlines more defined, like creatures of the night laying in wait to steal unfortunate souls to feed on. There was a bitter smell in the air and the aroma forced its way into his throat. He could feel the shuddering of his stomach trying to reach up his throat, the abhorrent taste of bile threatening to escape. He felt a biting at his head; the breeze was cool, brushing against his hair, as if a mocking stroke. He realised his hat was gone and he must appear ever so ungentlemanly without it. 

He couldn’t care about the loss, or anyone’s opinion on how he should be presented. Knowing that even a whisper of a word would break out a shriek from the depths of inside him. This thing that was nestled in his belly, clawing and scratching to get out, made him want to pick the ground up like a rug and shake it violently, so everyone knew this feeling. He had to reach the building, aimlessly bumping shoulders out the way until he saw it up close. The place where it happened. The pavement that was now stained with blood. 

The day after Alfred had spent that glorious evening in his mother’s dressing room as a child, he had returned to look at the flower again. There were raised voices downstairs and the sound of breaking glass and he needed to be in the company of something precious and pure. He sat down on the stool in front of the vanity desk and looked at the simple yellow rose. It was now drooping over the vase, as if too pained to stand. It had dropped several of its petals onto the desk, as if not enough strength to carry them all. The few petals that remained were no longer covered in crystal dew, but dry and withered. The ends no longer pure white, but tinged with brown. He wondered how something with so much vitality and life could possible lose it all within a day.

Alfred was unable to tear his eyes away from the sight on the pavement. He stood stiff, unable to move any part of him, as if Medusa herself had thrust this punishment upon him. His hands were pressed inside his pockets and his fingernails were digging into his hands, the pressure becoming sharp, before moistness seeped in. He felt something soft and gentle brush against his left knuckle. He turned it out of his pocket. It was the petal he had taken from Ciros earlier. He had been so angry at Drummond for standing him up. That turned into shame now. A single raindrop now fell upon the petal. It took him a moment to realise that it wasn’t raining. It was his tears, tracking their way down his face before throwing themselves at the remains of the flower, in the veiled hope of bringing it back to life. 

He stuffed it back into his pocket, not wanting to be reminded of a time when hope was in his heart. Though he tried, he couldn’t move, he just had a desire to lie down next to the blood, a notion that sounded even ridiculous to him. He didn’t want to be anywhere else or with anyone else. This was all that he had left of Drummond. He just wanted to sink into the ground and disappear here, where the last echoes of him were. Voices behind him broke him out of his stupor. He had to be brave. He must be. You must always be a knight, Alfred thought. Be fearless even when you fear.

He pulled a handkerchief quickly out of his pocket and wiped his eyes, though it was only a temporary solution. The tears did not help diminish any feeling. Perhaps those around him were talking about him. The Chief Equerry to the palace standing over Drummond’s…standing here, crying. Let them talk and gossip, he thought. Let them drag him off and hang him at the Tower, if need be. He didn’t care anymore. Why did he ever care? Why couldn’t he-

“…hard to believe he survived this.”

Alfred’s ears pricked at the slither of conversation. There was a couple standing just next to him. He saw their mouths moving, but his body was still failing him and he couldn’t seem to tune in to the words. He started to edge closer, his feet yet again moving of their own accord, like they were enchanted. Finally, the sound of the voices matched up with the movement of their lips.

“Apparently, he was even speaking, although I should imagine that was just the shock.”

Alfred’s heart trembled, the vibrations sending him forward even more. The couple stopped their conversation and turned towards him. In that moment, he supposed he must look quite shocking. No hat, trembling hands and red eyes, staring at these poor people, but for once he wasn’t concerned with people’s opinions. He had to ask. He had to find out.

“Who was alive?” he heard his voice ask; no social pleasantries, no manners or etiquette that he would usually insist on, even with close friends. “You said someone was alive. Who?” he stuttered again, as he gripped the man’s arm.

“The young gentleman who was shot. I believe he was in a very serious condition though,” the man stated, looking curiously at Alfred’s grip.

“But he wasn’t dead?”

“No, Sir, not when he left here. They took him to Guys, I believe, although by the looks of this scene, he may well not still be alive,” the man continued, trying to subtly pull his arm away.

Alfred didn’t need to hear anymore. He let go of the man’s arm, turned around and quickly marched down the street. There was hope.


	4. Don't Send Me To The Path of Nevermore

Alfred could hear his breath thud in his ears in time with his heartbeat. He perhaps should have arranged a carriage for his travels, but the thought of standing or sitting still for any length of time made his insides scrunch up. He had walked a similar journey before, for pleasure, and it seemed to take half the time he was using now, even though his thighs were burning at the speed he was moving his legs. He could feel himself perspire, soaking right through his shirt, the coolness doing nothing to bring down the fever he felt crossing his brow.

As if hearing his thoughts, the heavens suddenly opened and the rain began to fall. Turning his face up, he let the droplets comfort his cheeks, swooping downwards in a caress and tickling the opening where his neck met his chest. He was now becoming saturated with a freshness, as if a spreading hope was being delivered by God himself to urge him on to his destination. 

He would know, wouldn’t he? If Drummond had actually passed on from this world. He would feel the loss, notice how the stars dimmed, how the earth and soil shrieked with emptiness for its most glorious of sons. The birds would unquestionably protest such a thievery by stopping their fair song and Alfred’s heart would surely just shrivel up in defeat, knowing the very purpose for its use had faded away.

He was close to approaching the hospital, a shocking sight he was sure to make, but he did not care. His actions were perhaps so very different from what people knew of him, from his character and personality, but he’d never truly felt more like himself than at this very moment. He ran his fingers along the gate as he walked, turning into the courtyard. He stopped for just a second, unsure where he was headed.

“Lord Alfred?” a puzzled voice called out. Alfred looked to the side to see a group of gentlemen gathered together under umbrellas. One such man, who had spoken to him, was now making his way closer. The view was obscured by the rain filling his eyelashes and he quickly shook them loose. He could not quite make out the identity of the man, when it suddenly hit him; he worked in the Prime Minister’s office with Drummond. They had been introduced on occasion, but his name kept sliding from his tongue.

“Lord Alfred, are you unwell?” the gentleman said. Beven, he remembered, a slightly withered man that Drummond always joked would move so slowly that he managed to get covered in a layer of dust. That was the third time this evening that he had difficulty in placing names. It was usually a gift of his, matching faces and names, the Queen had relied on him on many occasions for this service. 

“Sir, are you feeling quite alright?” Beven asked, placing a hand on his arm in concern, “You are shivering, Lord Alfred.”

Alfred knew he had to compose himself before he was dragged off to be treated for the effects of hyperthermia. “I’m quite fine, thank you Beven. I just got caught in an unfortunate bout of rain. Please, could you tell me, Drummond…Mr Drummond, was he brought here?”

Beven looked surprised, “Well yes, we came with the Prime Minister. Did the Queen send you, Sir?”

Alfred wanted to scream and shout at that moment, beg the older man to tell him Drummond’s fate. Cry that he deserved to know, that he had every right to be with him, no matter what his condition, and they should have searched high and low for Alfred, the second Drummond had even got a scratch on him. For it should be him by his side, not the Prime Minister, or some office worker he shared tea with once a week. Him.

He resisted though, as he always did and spoke appropriately to Beven, “We at the palace heard the news. Drummond is a loyal government servant and has provided wise council to Her Majesty.” Alfred bit his tongue at the small untruth. It left a harsh taste in his mouth, but he could bear it a hundred times over in comparison to the breadth of pain he had felt this evening.

“Of course, Sir,” Bevin continued, “How very kind of Her Majesty to send you. I’m sure Mr Drummond’s family will be most appreciative of the gesture.”

Alfred wanted to shake the man, pin him against the wall and just beg him to tell him how Drummond was, instead of having to face one more second of being shut out. Being treated like an acquaintance, a bystander, like it wasn’t his heart that was laying up in this hospital somewhere, waiting for Alfred to return to it.

“Do you have any news of Mr Drummond’s condition. I should like to report back to the Queen on his state,” he asked, trying to regain the calm and composure that was expected of him.

“Thankfully, he was alive, the last we have heard,” Bevin started, and Alfred felt his whole body exhale. “I came in with him and the Prime Minister. Awful…” he started to tail off and hold a faraway gaze, “Terrible business.”

“Can I see him?” Alfred let the words leave his mouth before he could restrain them. Bevin had taken a little step back in shock.

“Well, I don’t believe anyone has seen him yet. The doctors are still working,” he replied, as if Alfred had suddenly lost his mind for even entertaining the idea. “I could perhaps show you to the Prime Minister? I’m sure the family would not care to be disturbed at this time. They must be in a lot of anguish with a loved one being so unwell.”

“Of course, I would appreciate seeing the Prime Minister,” Alfred replied, trying not to sound hostile towards the other man. The sheer tonnage of feeling he held towards Drummond, he found it surprising that people couldn’t see it straight away, that they didn’t accept it, just as they acknowledged the moon and the sun sharing the same sky.

Bevin motioned for Alfred to follow him. He tried not to show his enthusiasm to getting closer to Drummond, to finding out more about how he was. A little hint of darkness still gnawed away at his brain, injecting the worst outcome into his thoughts, knowing that he may step into this hospital and not find Drummond’s soul present anymore. Just his body; the shell that once contained his magnificent sprit.

They entered the hospital and Alfred almost retched at the overwhelming stench. It didn’t seem a place befitting Drummond. There were hues of brown everywhere, from the floor to the walls, to the sheets hurled on the ground with blood so old it had lost is warning colour. None of it was pure, no white remained anywhere. This was perhaps what hell looked like.

Bevin stopped and motioned Alfred to enter a door. He slowly turned the door knob and pushed his way into the room. This space was in such a contrast to what was lurking just outside. The paint on the walls was fresh and clean. There were vases of daisies sitting on a table, nodding their heads in a friendly welcome. Five pairs of eyes automatically met his arrival. All looked shocked. All looked unwelcoming.

“Lord Alfred,” one of the voices said. Sir Robert Peel, stood up and moved forward to shake his hand in a greeting. The Prime Minister had to practically pick Alfred’s hand up from his side, he felt so frozen in motion. “How unexpected. Has the Queen sent you?”

The comment from the Prime Minister felt more like a suggestion than a question. As if Alfred was going to reveal a different reason for being at the hospital and Peel was warning him that there was only one reason he should be there.

Alfred played along of course. Playing make believe seemed to be an ever-constant aspect of his life in recent years. He remembered as a child, one of his brothers banned him from playing with the toy soldiers, because he was far too rational and suggested the army doll carried too much weight to comfortably sit on the toy horse. He thought things through, that was who he was and he always went with the most reasonable action. Oh, if his six-year-old self could see him now, and how far he had fallen from that grace.

“I wanted to take news of Drummond to Her Majesty,” he said, again careful with the words he was using. “Is there an update on his condition?”

“You are not just here to update the Queen, Lord Alfred,” a female voice suddenly said, “I know why you are here.”

Alfred felt startled by the comment, unable to speak or move. He felt Peel tense up beside him too. Did someone finally see what he felt for Drummond? Was he wearing it so clearly now, the feelings leaking out, unable to be held any longer. Tonight, being the final straw after years of damning up his emotions, the floodgates have finally burst, and everyone could see.

He turned towards the voice and saw a beautiful young woman sitting before him, surrounded by two older men and a woman. She held a handkerchief, embroidered with hyacinths, which she had used to dab at her eyes. He didn’t have to ask her name. This was Florence.

“You are his friend,” she continued, smiling at him gently, “He talks about you ever so often, I feel like I know you. You both like those awful cheroots,” she continued, with a short laugh.

“We share some bad habits,” he responded with a calm voice. Perhaps it was more a revealing statement than he should have made, but he felt jealous of this young lady. He felt that he should be sitting where she was, being comforted by the people next to her, who he recognised vaguely as Drummond’s parents and the Marquess of Lothian. There was some guilt there as well. She seemed lovely and she was being betrayed. He may not have her seat, but he knew he had Drummond’s heart.

“Well, it’s so sweet of you to come and see how he is and return the news to the Queen,” she said, and Alfred took that as a sign that his presence was not needed and he should leave soon, “The doctors are still treating him and he’s lost a lot of blood. The bullet came ever so close to his heart, but he is fighting on.”

“Thank you,“ Alfred said, with a small bow. If Drummond had to fight for his life, he would surely win. 

“I’ll show you out, Lord Alfred,” Peel interjected, as he opened up the door and shepherded Alfred out quickly.

Once they were outside, Alfred took the opportunity to speak to the Prime Minister, “Sir Robert, if there is any news on Drummond perhaps you could let me know, or perhaps I could stay-“

“If there is any news on Mr Drummond,” Peel interrupted, “Then I will send a message to the Queen. You need to go home, Lord Alfred.” 

With that Peel turned back around and re-entered the room, leaving Alfred alone, a feeling he was slipping deeper and deeper into this evening.

He felt a lost connection already. Drummond was in this hospital somewhere, maybe he could go find him. He worked at the Palace after all, how could the doctors refuse his request if he was under the Queen’s orders?

The Queen hadn’t asked him here, though. No one had. He felt like an intruder; he was being treated as such. Since the encounter with Florence, his bravery had wavered, and his confidence diminished. In that room, that light, open room, sat everything that someone like Drummond should wish for: a supportive family, a beautiful wife from a distinguished family and a prosperous career. It was a young man’s dream. Behind that door was Drummond’s path to being Prime Minister. He knew it. He had everything in his grasp.

Out here, lurking in the hallway; this stained, grim and dark corridor was Alfred. Why would Drummond give up all that for him? He had offered the other night. He had vowed to do it. There was maybe a fine line between idiocy and bravery. He was so bold though, if he wanted to do something, then he would. If their positions were reversed, then he knew that Drummond would be storming through every room, pulling back every curtain until he found Alfred.

Alfred didn’t know how to be that brave though. Thinking back, he realised that every courageous thing he had ever said or done, was when Drummond was by his side. With that thought in mind, he left the hospital. The breeze blew around him in an empathetic embrace.


	5. Leave It In The Lap Of The Gods

 

Alfred’s legs were heavier than ever now, as he walked hauntingly away from the hospital. He kept his head up and forward, so strong was the temptation to look back. He had made his trip to the Underworld to save Drummond, convinced that just his presence would make a difference. Scoffing at that thought now, the preposterous idea that he was some kind of hero. That he was important. He couldn’t fight his way in. He’d failed in saving Drummond’s soul, too scared to fight the monsters that lurked beneath. The demons that constantly ate through to his depth were there in full force, questioning his ability to rescue someone, when he didn’t even have the courage to be himself and show his true face.

Drummond had people there to save him already. Although, Alfred knew in his heart that they hadn’t faced the depths of hell like he had. What monsters could they have possibly slayed that were equal to those that Alfred had slaughtered just to be close to this man? They got to have Drummond without question, without judgement and without paying a price. They couldn’t appreciate him, not really, when they had not had to fight for him. Alfred had to face the wrath of all the gods, who in their anger had created a world where he couldn’t be with the one he loved. Even before they tried to steal Drummond away tonight, they mocked them both, relentless in their taunting reminders that both men couldn’t take and treasure that which rightfully belonged to them.

Drummond had been brave though and not listened to the warnings, dragging Alfred with him down that dangerous path. They’d both looked the gods in the eyes and refused to play by the rules of their world. They had defied the deities out in the open, given in to what was right and natural. They had stood before them without remorse. That was what being a hero was all about, wasn’t it? Facing the monster with little chance of survival, but using all that was good and positive to defeat it. They’d cut the head off the beast and thrown it at the feet of the gods, who were sitting high on Mount Olympus. Those barbarians having the audacity to try and play puppet with their lives and their destinies. However, there always is a twist in the tale. Always a call for blood, a punishment for rebellion, freedom and choice.

Now, he’d been warned to leave the hospital, leave Drummond and to go back to the safe, solid sanctuary of the palace. They’d sat there in their sterile room, making a mockery of his heroics. Treating his actions as if they were nothing; unimpressed with his song and verse used covertly to portray his love. He had wanted to turn around and run back, with every footstep he took. He knew the warning though and understood its meaning. If he looked back, if he was brave enough to reach out for Drummond and grab him, then he could lose him forever. His body was aching from turning away, from taking the easy path, something that use to come so naturally to him. There were tears in his throat, his body not understanding why he was walking away from that which gave it purpose.

Perhaps though, this was the braver option. To keep on going forward and trust that Drummond was right behind him, on the road back to him. That his salvation had been granted willingly and he would be given a second chance. That they, together, would be given another opportunity at the whim of the gods. He wasn’t sure anymore. He wasn’t the one who usually made the decisions about them. He wasn’t the boy who made choices in in his own impertinent, clueless and magnificent way that made Alfred question how someone like that could even exist. That was Drummond’s prerogative; sensing where Alfred wanted to go and pulling him enthusiastically down that path. Drummond would have turned around.

 

 

**Buckingham Palace 1842**

 

Alfred could see the daffodils were beginning to bloom, even from this small window inside the palace. Their defiant little heads bursting though, as if to stand up to the sun, mocking its deep, gold rays and insisting that they could glow much brighter. Poor little darlings, he thought. They had no clue that one day they would wither away in a haze, and the beams from the sky would haughtily coat their shrunken bodies in beams of light as a show of dominance, daring the next opponent to take them on.

  
Or perhaps they knew their life was limited. Instead of just being content to fade into the background, they fought on, being comfortable showing their true self no matter what foes they faced. Maybe they chose to dance merrily for a little time, than hide in the background for longer.

  
The rumbling voices from inside the room kept on and Alfred knew he should be paying more attention and turn back to the group, rather than rudely studying the capricious flowers. It was dangerous though, to turn back when he was in the room. His focus would not become better, in fact it would dissipate and meander off to somewhere unknown. At least gazing out the window, he could keep half an ear on the conversation.

“Alfred,” Victoria’s voice gently called out. His respite was now over, and he had to gather his strength to put on his mask once more. “What do you think?”

Thankfully, he had picked up on the notes of the conversation. The Queen wanted to make a visit to Chatsworth House. They had just completed work on some beautiful fountains in the gardens and Victoria very much wanted to go view them. Alfred was sure this was actually the case, but he also knew the young monarch. Court life sometimes became stifling for her and she relished an escape. After the death of Lord Melbourne and poor, sweet Dash, she wanted to run free more than ever. He didn’t blame her; he understood the desire for freedom. To not feel so constricted, so watched, with so much expectation. Whereas the Queen seemed to be content and refreshed once she got her fix of this, Alfred felt hidden still.

“I think it is a wonderful idea, Your Majesty,” he replied, noticing the relived exhale the Queen delivered upon hearing his words, “I understand the Duke is very pleased with how the gardens are looking.”

“Well, we are almost all in agreement then. Sir Robert, it seems you are the only voice of protest,” she responded, looking haughtily towards her Prime Minister.

  
“May I remind you, Your Majesty, I don’t disagree with your visit to Chatsworth House. Only that you meet my request to delay the trip until I’m able to attend with you,” the Prime Minister responded, nodding his head to help solidify his idea.

Alfred wasn’t sure he had ever seen Peel without a furrowed forehead, but it seemed to be out in more force than ever. It was then that he made the mistake of turning toward Drummond. He hadn’t meant to, but it was becoming second nature to him. His selfish body betrayed him, wanting and needing to look towards the other man.

He met Drummond’s eyes almost immediately. They did that now. It seemed like a sixth sense. They knew when the other was looking. The depths of their souls called to each other in voices that no one else could hear. It felt like being out of control of your own body. A higher force than him, willing and wanting them to be close. And they were, frequently now. The visits came more often. The excuses less formal. The palace just seemed to accept it; Drummond was a part of their life and never questioned that it was with Alfred he was always seen. This must be what hiding in plain sight was.

He was beginning to know Drummond, better than perhaps he knew anyone in his life, and Alfred knew everyone. That was a part of who he was and who he was expected to be. He was liked by all, they would say. He always had a smile for everyone and a kind word for most. Perhaps that’s why they didn’t notice anything unusual about his friendship with Drummond. They must think it a kindness to a young man of a similar age, to befriend him at the palace and make sure he is informed. Perhaps it looked the same to them, but the difference in feeling for Alfred was that of a thousand suns.

It didn’t even feel clandestine, their ‘accidental’ meetings on the balcony, or their late-night drinks which apparently no one else wanted to attend. Everyone knew where they were and what they were doing. They just didn’t know the thoughts that were budded up inside. They were seeing the casing, fooled into thinking that was it. Those sprites of their souls that connected them, that spoke and sang and danced, they knew. They understood what these feelings were and were free to explore and delight in them. They lived underground though, never able to approach the sunlight. He and Drummond had to be content with what they had.

There was still something about Drummond that was tucked away. He was a curious creature; seemingly so outgoing and bold and expressive, but something still held behind the eyes.

His eyes that currently looked at Alfred determinedly, as if just making a decision of proposed difficulty. They then switched to the parties at the front. Drummond took a small step forward and cleared his throat, “Excuse me, Ma’am, if I may interject. What if I went on the trip instead?”

All eyes turned towards the young man speaking and the room went silent. Alfred didn’t know what to think. No one just spoke to the Queen without her consent, and certainly not to invite themselves along for a trip with the Royal party. Drummond was showing no fear though. Standing respectfully at full height, his head slightly raised in the air and his expression neutral. Alfred knew him though. A slight twitching of his thumb gave away the fact that he wasn’t quite sure what the response was going to be.

“I’m sorry, Mr Drummond?” the Queen responded after a short pause. By the look on her face, Alfred knew she had clearly heard what he had said, but almost couldn’t quite believe her own ears.

“Well, Your Majesty,” Drummond continued, and Alfred was immediately impressed with how his voice didn’t waiver, not an inch. “I will be able to complete my work for that week beforehand, or delegate some responsibilities. I could even bring the majority of non-urgent work with me. That way you will be able to enjoy the fountains and you’ll have a representative of the government there, should you need one at any point.”

This ridiculous, brave, impertinent and bold man standing in front of him, was not shying away from anything. It was infectious this determination. Alfred couldn’t help but start walking towards Drummond. Their internal nymphs calling to one another again, beckoning Alfred over.

“I think that is an excellent idea, Your Majesty,” Alfred said, standing parallel to Drummond. He almost couldn’t believe he was saying these words. To think that he was encouraging the Queen to take along an unelected outsider who had invited himself along for a royal visit. In his position, he should surely be advising Victoria to be cautious, and reminding her that she didn’t need a representative of the government to visit a garden on Derbyshire. His heart was jumping though as the implications of the situation were setting in, “I’m sure this will appease the Prime Minister, as he trusts Drummond to keep the government’s interest at the forefront and it means that you can accept the Duke’s kind invitation.”

The Queen and the Prime Minister looked at each other for a brief moment. Then Victoria nodded her head, “Well it looks like we will have to inform them at Chatsworth that we have another guest. If that is suitable for you, Sir Robert?

While the two leaders discussed details of the trip, Alfred turned his head slightly to the right to look at Drummond. He saw the other man turn his head too, just catching the corner of each other’s eyes and smirking conspiratorially. Drummond turned his head back and continued to hold it high as he looked towards the Queen. Alfred couldn’t help but notice the sun beaming though the window on to the young mans face. Even nature herself could not win this fight. It was clear who shone more gloriously.

 

 

 

With any trip away, the palace was always bustling with activity in preparation. There were cases to be packed, staff to be organised and itineraries to be arranged. The convoy did not tend to travel light, even though they would be at their destination for just a few days. Life at court, though pleasant, could be monotonous. The days could drag, performing the same tasks over and over again, seeing the same faces, having the same conversations. Alfred sometimes though he was just fading away, as insignificant as a vase sitting on a shelf; empty, unnoticed and blending into the background.

Now the palace came alive, although the sensation was representative of how Alfred felt every time Drummond visited. Bustling and busy, staff chuckling to each other as they passed in the hallway, gossiping about their destination. The heart of the building beat strong, flushing blood and life through its veins to every crevice of the palace.

They had planned to leave early on the day of their travels. The coaches were all packs and ready to go; they were just waiting for the Queen and Prince Albert to bid farewell to the princess. Alfred knew he would be accompanying the Duchess and Miss Coke in their coach, as he had on other journeys. He didn’t know where Drummond would be placed though. The thought of travelling on the road for a few days, with him just achingly out of reach and out of site a few feet ahead of them on the road, was unbearable. It reminded him of a dream he frequently had.

He was in the forest, most likely the small wood by the back of the house he grew up in. He was lost, he knew that much. Everywhere around him there was just the thick-brittle of green; sharp, scratchy twigs drowning out any light that hoped to burst through the canopy. Suddenly, he saw the back of his mother. He couldn’t see her face, but her long, blonde, shiny hair cascaded down her back. He rarely saw his mother with her hair out of style, but when he did, he thought she looked at her most pleasant and free.

  
She was dressed in pure white, trimmed with Chantilly lace, delicately embroidered so not to overshadow the beauty of the owner. Alfred called out to her, but she didn’t hear, so he quickly starting walking towards her. No matter how fast he walked though, she never seemed to get any nearer. It got to the point that he was sprinting his fastest, falling down from his efforts, becoming furious and inconsolable, screeching her name so loudly. He always woke up at that point; he never reached her, he just lay in bed, unable to catch his breath and unable to return to sleep.  
  


“Lord Alfred?” a voice said, entering his ear faintly. He started to focus on this world again and noticed Wilhelmina shyly beckoning to him. He breathed in the air and made his way towards her.

“I think Her Majesty is ready to leave now, so we’ve been told to aboard the coaches,” she said smiling, clearly as excited as Alfred was about their journey outside the palace gates. “I hope you don’t mind,” she said, almost in a whisper, “But I’ve invited Mr Drummond into our coach. He was going to sit with the household staff, which really wouldn’t do!”

“Quite,” Alfred said, his affection for the young lady before him growing immediately stronger.

“Also,” she said, walking towards the coach as Alfred followed, “I find him quite an interesting conversationalist. I think there will be much amusement on our journey. Oh, there he is now.”

Alfred turned to see Drummond striding towards them, dressed in a deep burgundy. Perhaps, in second thoughts, it would have been better if Drummond had been assigned into another coach. Now Alfred faced the prospect of being in an enclosed space with the man for an elongated period of time. He would hear every breath, see every lash on his eyes flutter, notice every small quirk on his lips. Of course, Alfred always noticed these things about Drummond, but it was only for a few hours at a time, an evening at most, which would be broken up by conversing with others. This would be hours just being made to look at him, all his senses heightened. It felt as if the gods were testing him.

 


	6. Stone Cold Crazy (Part 1)

It was the slicing, crunching sound of the gravel underneath his feet that pulled Alfred out of the memory. As he slipped back into reality, he realised he was standing in the exact same place he had been thinking about. That time, that glimpsed moment, when Drummond came bounding up for the carriage to Chatsworth. He’d somehow made it back to the palace without out even considering where his steps were taking him. His mind managed to carry him home while he was in a sentimental slumber, shielding him with its arms. Taking pity on his wounded soul.

 

Now he was aware of his physical surroundings, he noticed an uncomfortable sensation on the sole of his foot; a pressure which severely contrasted with the numbness that the rest of his body seemed to be victim to. He lumberly lifted his foot. On the bottom of his boot, caught between the material edging, was a small, simple, flesh coloured pebble. Alfred wedged it out of his boot, knocking at it with his fingernail to release it from its position. He rolled it carefully between his thumb and index finger. It was damp and cooling. How strange that something so small and seemingly insignificant could cause him a pain. There were hundreds upon thousands of pieces of gravel surrounding him, but this piece had stuck on to him. It had made him notice it. Many would state, with a knowing authority, that this was an insignificant object. He knew different.

 

The pressure in his foot had gone now, once the offending item had been removed. He couldn’t really complain about the pain. It was just a little stone, at any other moment of his life he may not even have noticed it. But, he recognised that sometimes the small things feel worse than the large. Quite a few years back, one of his brothers told the story of a man who had been thrown from his horse and twisted his ankle. He was writhing around in pain, holding his leg and screaming about it to anyone in the near distance about the pain above in his foot. When the medic finally reached him, the wounded man had been stone still, not a sound or movement did he make. The reason he had fallen off his horse in the first place, was because he had been shot in the heart.

 

Thinking of this story, brought him back to Drummond. Had he felt the pain of the bullet searing through his chest? Perhaps the first he knew of any injury was when his head had hit the pavement, his body reacting with uncertainty to the foreign intruder storming through his frame. He may have been unconscious almost immediately, his beautiful brain protecting his body, singing a lilting rhyme to lull him to a peaceful sleep while thunder rolled through his core.

 

Alfred had heard many stories and seen many injuries in his time. He knew it was likely that Drummond’s body would go into a type of shock first. It would protect itself against the sudden pain, shielding him like the clouds cover the moon, protecting its tender light face against the sullied activities of earth. Shock seemed like the wrong word though. How could Drummond’s body possibly be shocked. It had sought out that bullet, finding it willingly. It had been looking for the fight.

 

After his body had given that initial resistance, he would have had nothing to counter the pain. Alfred knew men who had been to war, who knew what could and would happen to them at the end. They were men of realism, or pragmatism. While not welcomed, the realities of death would not be unexpected. Drummond wasn’t like that though. He was like a dancing sunflower, frowning down at the roses for littering their limbs with thorns. Not appreciating the need to guard oneself. Not fearing the pain that danger may bring. Not having the understanding to protect himself by hiding in the weeds. He wouldn’t have thought about the pain until it was stabbing through him. By then it would have been too late.

 

As much as he had known soldiers and heroes in victory and in loss, there were fewer braver than Drummond. but, knowing him like he knew him, he wouldn’t have been able to bare the pain. It would infuriate him, this darkness, this vicious beast attacking at his inner self. He must still be feeling that. Alfred hoped so. Pain meant living. It meant fighting, it meant that he was still on this earth. Over the years, there had been a few instances when Drummond had been mildly hurt or injured; nothing to even leave a scar, but damage nonetheless. He had seemed more distressed by the fact that fate had slashed at him, tried to capture him in her claws. He became frustrated at even the smallest sleight, pursing his lips and silently cursing the world in a dramatic fashion. Alfred wondered how he would be now. Would he be theatrically rolling his eyes at being kept away from work by this incident, horrified that someone had tried to hurt Peel?

 

Still. Considering his injury and blood loss, that would be his likely state. Whether forever paused or just momentarily, there was something not acceptable about Drummond being still. He was fast and frenetic, even when his body restricted its movement, his mind was still clearly a motor of power. Alfred rolled around the pebble again, noting its compliance to his actions. He carefully placed it in his pocket and headed for the door.

 

He entered the palace, barely able to catch his breath. He had felt powerless all evening, unable to hook control of the situations spiralling around him. In truth, perhaps he never had any control. He knew how the world worked too well, and his role as a cog in it. He couldn’t step out, stop or slow down because the machine would notice and bear down on him. His function and purpose may be irreplaceable, but Alfred certainly was expendable. In fact, there was only one person he knew with enough power and control for what he needed.

 

He must talk to the Queen. He would have to be subtle of course, but he was sure that she was aware of a friendship between Drummond and himself. She would understand that he would find the politician’s injuries distressing, as any friend would. Drummond had been a guest at dinners and parties for years now. He was practically part of the royal household. She would send a messenger to the hospital straight away to get an update. She would probably even contact the Prime Minister. Alfred would soon know how Drummond was in the most intricate detail.

 

His body was now a mixture of feelings and emotions. The high paced walk tonight had made his limbs feel like gelatine; moving and shaking without his control, feeling solid but slopping onto surfaces. His lungs were constricted, his breath huffing from his mouth and nostrils like a steam train, sending a buzzing to his ears. His heart still went on beating; how, Alfred didn’t know. It had been broken and bruised beyond belief on this night. He just hoped it would not be battered beyond repair with the unknown outcomes of the next few days.

 

The palace seemed unusually empty, though he must admit the hour was late. There had been many nights he had walked the halls, needed a larger vessel to breathe out the constrictive thoughts residing in his head. He heard voices from the drawing room and hoped the young monarch had not yet retired to bed. Stepping in, he saw the familiar faces of the Duchess of Buccleuch and Wilhelmina Coke, deep in contemplation, with intricate embroidery sitting upon their laps.

 

Wilhelmina suddenly gazed at the door, clearly hearing Alfred’s entrance. She then fully turned her head towards him, dropping her needlework in her lap and staring at him wide eyed. Thinking about it, he must look an absolute state. Ordinarily, he prided himself on his appearance, always dressed acceptably and impeccably for the occasion, making sure he represented the palace to the best of his ability. Looking at himself now, he realised his boots and lower trousers were covered in mud and murky puddle water. He could still feel the dampness underneath the collar of his jacket; the rest of the item looked creased and crinkled from the exposure of the weather. His hair, which was usually perfectly coiffed must have been a bedraggled state, having been subjected to an onslaught of water from the heavens and dried by the harsh wind. One hand was bare and covered with dirt and grit, while the other still retained its protection. He was surprised he was recognised at all, his appearance was so different.

 

While the Duchess had a look of stone upon her face, Wilhelmina jumped from her chair and walked over to him, once she’d navigated her way around various threads and stitches, and let out a gasp, “Alfred, what on earth is the matter? Are you unwell?” That was the second time within as many hours that he had been asked that. What was the answer? It was certainly no physical malady that was causing him trouble. Yet his mental condition was bleeding and oozing out of his soul and controlling his body too.

 

Just beyond the doorway there was a single wooden chair. His feet managed to carry him through and he deposited himself upon the piece of furniture. He realised that this was the first time he had sat down since his body had forced him upon the grey, cold steps earlier. The harsh surface, smooth and shocking, was stirring in comparison to the softness of the chair now. It was almost like it was comforting him. Remaining gentle on his body so not to cause him any further distress.

 

Wilhelmina was clearly quite befuddled at Alfred’s demeanour and was looking at him as though he was an intruder disguised as her friend. She switched between looking questioningly at her aunt and sympathetically patting Alfred on the shoulder, as if he were an aging sheepdog who had lost his flock.

 

Alfred realised that he’d almost forgotten his purpose for entering the room in the first place, “Where is the Queen?” he said, barely recognising the throaty harshness of his voice. “I need to talk to her.”

  
He could see the Duchess’ eyebrows rise higher at Alfred’s tone. He was almost shocked at it himself. This evening seemed to have changed him, even to his own eyes. He felt like he had been touched by Prometheus’ hand and burst from his clay shell to relish in his humanity. Wilhelmina too, was visibly shocked by his lack of pleasantries. It was perhaps a side of him she had never seen or imagined.

  
There was still silence in the room and Alfred thought that he may have to phrase the question again. He was becoming impatient with the delay in the response. As shocked as the two ladies in front of him were with his current attitude, he imagined they would be even more surprised when he started stalking around the palace calling out the Queen’s name.  
  
  
“I believe she is in the nursery,” Wilhelmina said quite suddenly, just as Alfred thought about leaving the room. He looked at the young woman, who was waiting expectantly as if he was about to relinquish the reasoning behind his odd behaviour.  
  
  
Before he could utter a word though, the Duchess spoke up clearly, concisely and straight to the point. “Whatever is the matter, boy?” she said in a curt manner, perhaps telling that the concern was more with Alfred’s behaviour than the reason behind it.  
  
  
He thought he should be direct with his information, unable to keep it in any longer. “I’m afraid there has been an accident. Mr Drummond was shot outside parliament,” he said, surprised at how clear and impersonal he had sounded. It was almost in a whisper. Alfred felt like screaming it out.  
  
  
Miss Coke had stepped backwards in her surprise, still retaining her hand on Alfred’s shoulder, almost as if to steady herself. “Oh my goodness. Is he…” she asked, as reluctant to say the word as he was to hear it. He thanked her for that small mercy, the connotations and significance of just the term being enough to shake him.  
  
  
“No, no,” he responded quickly, plucking the suggestion of the idea of Drummond’s death out of the air and smashing it down before it could develop further. “But he’s obviously in a serious condition. I thought her Majesty should know.”  
  
  
Alfred thought that this would appear a reasonable time to leave the room. He had informed his company of the news and now felt composed enough not to shock the Queen with his appearance. Perhaps he would even stop by his chambers on the way, to make sure he looked presentable enough. In order to keep up appearances and pretences, of course. Presently he was unconcerned with something as trifling as how he looked. He patted Miss Coke gently on the hand, partly to thank her for the genuine attempt at comfort and partly so he would not seem so rude when standing up and hoisting her out the way. He started to pick himself up from the chair to make his way towards the door. A forceful voice stopped his retreat.  
  
  
“Lord Alfred, come and sit down and have a drink.”  
  
  
Alfred turned towards the voice and could immediately tell by the Duchess’ face that this was not a request, but an order. At no other time in his life would Alfred have refused a command such as this, not even if it would considerably inconvenience him. In fact, he probably wouldn’t even refuse a simple request, even if it was disruptive. Today though, Alfred was breaking with protocol and felt secure in his refusal.  
  
  
He nodded towards the Duchess and held his head high. His demeanour reminded him of someone else, and he almost let out a small smirk. “I must inform the Queen straight away,” he said, trying to keep his voice strong and brave.  
  
  
The Duchess herself was not one to hear her request ignored. She abruptly shook her head, “Nonsense. There is no urgency. Wilhelmina, go let Her Majesty know.”  
  
  
Alfred felt his control slipping away from him, “I think I should be the one..”  
  
  
“Sit down, Alfred…please,” the Duchess repeated, interrupting Alfred and showing that she would not be on the losing side of this matter.  
Wilhelmina gave a slight squeal at the tension in the room, and before the Duchess could turn her attention back her way, decided to hurry on her way and head for the nursery.

There was a slight standoff between the two aristocrats as a deafening silence met the room. There was a battle of wills. Alfred had a plan; it was to be him that was meant to inform Victoria, to control the communication the palace had with the Prime Minister. Miss Coke did not know what had happened with Drummond, just that he had currently survived the ordeal. The Queen may not think it a pressing matter and not send a messenger to find out his current status.

  
  
“Cyril, a brandy for Lord Alfred please,” the Duchess said softly this time, her sympathetic voice weakening Alfred’s stance considerably. He didn’t notice a member of the serving staff there before. How could he have missed another person in the room? Perhaps he wasn’t in a suitable condition for the Queen to see him, after all. She may not understand Alfred’s state over Drummond’s condition. Or perhaps she would understand it too well. The sound of the decanter clinking against the glass brought his attention. It sounded delicate, as if once false move could shatter it into a million pieces. Cyril brought over his glass. It felt cooling in his hand. Smooth and unmalleable. The shape secure and strong, though Alfred letting go of it would cause it to shatter and crumble.  
  
  
He started to walk over the other side of the room, his legs feeling a little less coltish now, and sat in the chair opposite the older lady. The Duchess had not taken up her embroidery again. In fact, he believed that her eyes had yet to move from his person since he entered the room that evening.  
  
  
“I can see how much you care for the boy, but this must stop now.” Alfred looked at the Duchess confused at what she could mean. Was the fact that he appeared so dishevelled such a problem? He knew how much she prided herself on etiquette, but this was a one-off occurrence. He had surely always met her criteria before. He wasn’t one to be swayed by the lady either. He saw her more like a disgruntled old moggy, swiping at the ankles that went by.  
  
  
“I am not as blind as you and others may think, Alfred.”  
  
  
Something in Alfred’s mind clicked. The inference of the Duchess’ tone was clear. His grip on his glass was slipping slightly and he felt his throat closing up. For all the pretence he had portrayed this evening, of being brave and rebellious, that was not how he was made. He knew what it meant to be something you weren’t, and he wasn’t beyond fear.  
  
  
“As much as I don’t wish harm on the boy, perhaps this is a blessing,” the Duchess continued, and Alfred wasn’t sure what he was to hear next, expecting perhaps that the woman would curse him to damnation. “I should imagine he will now be convalescing, if he continues to improve, and will no longer attend to matters of the government. We will of course send a brief, appropriate message once we know the outcome of his ailment. But that will be the extent of your contact, Alfred. You cannot hide behind the procedure and process of the palace now. There will be a new secretary for the prime minister; it will not look respectful to carry on communication with the old one. The whispers have been barely audible. We will keep it that way and snuff them out. The people caring and looking after him are his mother and his fiancé. Do you understand?”  
  
  
Alfred realised he had not said a word the entire time. What the Duchess was saying made sense to his brain, he understood protocol and the sensibility of his position. To his head it sounded natural and fitting. To his heart though, it sounded like hell. A purgatory of reliving lost opportunities. He simply nodded. He thought no one knew. That no one had noticed. It was something just between him and Drummond. Precious and unmined.

  
How did the Duchess know? Did everyone else know too? No, they couldn’t possibly. This wasn’t something that many people would turn a blind eye to. Had the Duchess been watching them, noting the signs that were there before Alfred and Drummond had properly recognised them themselves. He thought back to that coach ride to Chatsworth. At the time, it had seemed so simple, so fun and frivolous. Looking back though, the signs were clearly there.

 

 

 

**Journey to Chatsworth - 1842**

  
  
They had been on the road for two hours past. The weather was pleasant, and he could feel the pale lemon rays beat down on to his cheeks. Though the coach was going at a gentle pace, every now and then there would be a slight rocking as the wheels struck uneven ground, Alfred was hoping that they would soon stop for a break. He felt the need to stretch his legs and the air in the coach was stifling.

  
He looked opposite him to see Wilhelmina Coke happily grinning at the passing nature, humming a quiet tune and clearly enjoying the excitement of being out of the palace. Beside him, he could hear the Duchess softly snore, dipping in and out of consciousness.

  
Alfred looked opposite the Duchess. He couldn’t help it and it felt like blessed relief. He had been timing himself, seeing how long he could look out the window, or down at Miss Coke’s shoes before he gave in. This time he had made it to around five minutes. On the other side of the coach sat Drummond, dressed in a burgundy jacket, glancing out the window, gently tapping a rhythm of the Duchess’ snores on the side of the carriage.

  
The initial start to the journey had left Alfred slightly panicked and off kilter. It seemed strange to him, to not only be trapped in a small environment with Drummond for such a long period of time, but to have a constant audience. He wasn’t quite sure how to act. Thankfully, the other occupants of the container had managed to fill the silence, exchanging pleasantries, talk of the lovely weather and details of the journey to Derbyshire. It had all been very appropriate and pleasant, which lulled Alfred into an ease. He knew how to do this, how to make innocuous small talk.

  
About an hour into the journey, the polite chatting had levelled off and the travellers were left with their own thoughts. This was more uncharted territory for Alfred, because his own thoughts were not as appropriate for polite company. Although they remained in his head, he felt exposed, seeing the object of his musings straight in front of him. Of course, that had happened many times before, but he was under watch this time. He thought about speaking out loud to Drummond, but as he tried to rattle through his mind, he found he had run out of pleasantries. The things he wanted to say, he couldn’t in front of the ladies. It wouldn’t be vulgar, of course, but things that he and Drummond talked about and laughed about, he couldn’t imagine anyone else understanding.

  
So, the silence had continued, although the ambience was certainly not quiet. The snoring to his left continued and the sweet humming in front of him sailed on. Almost instinctively he started to tap out the beat of Miss Coke’s tune. He didn’t think the young lady in front of him even realised, but he knew who would. Glancing his head again to the left, he could see now that Drummond was grinning, delighting in the slight teasing of the two ladies and the sounds they made. He looked so joyful, so young, shuffling his glance between the Duchess and Alfred as he was tapping away on the side window.

  
Abruptly, the coach hit a rough spot in the road, shaking the carriage to the left with force, resulting in Wilhelmina’s hum turning into a shriek and the Duchess awaking with a rather unbecoming snort. As if knowing an unwritten score, both Alfred and Drummond finished their tapping with a short coda, both bursting into a giggle at their finished performance.

  
“Lord Alfred, what on earth do you find so funny?” the Duchess spluttered, now fully awake and looking grouchier for having her pleasant sleep interrupted.

  
“Nothing, Duchess,” Alfred said, trying to compose himself. “Drummond and I were just having a conversation about music.” He noticed the twinkle in Drummond’s eye. It felt so thrilling to have someone to play with, who knew when you were teasing and how far to take it.  
  
  
“Oh, were you Lord Alfred?“ Wilhelmina said, looking quite confused. “I must say I was quite in my own head, thinking about the fountains and looking at the glorious countryside.”  
  
  
“You spend far too much time within your own mind, Wilhelmina,” the Duchess responded, before Alfred had a chance. “It is unbecoming in a young lady. You must engage properly with those around you.”  
  
  
Alfred didn’t like to mention that he had remained wide awake and ready to converse, while the Duchess was quite deep in slumber. He didn’t want to worsen her mood.  
  
  
“Well, I would have quite liked to have joined in Lord Alfred and Mr Drummond’s conversation, I must admit,” Wilhelmina replied wistfully. Then, she proceeded to sit straight up like a jackrabbit and turn towards their guest, “Oh Mr Drummond, do you enjoy the opera? Lord Alfred and I go often, it is ever such a wonderful time. You must join us on occasion.”  
  
  
At that moment, Alfred didn’t know whether he wanted to grab Miss Coke in an embrace or hurl her out the carriage. Certainly, he preyed on any opportunity to spend any length of time with Drummond. To sit with him at the opera may be too much to bear. To see his face, while the purest of emotion was being realised in stirring melodies and spectacular arias, may be like seeing a celestial being appear on earth, the glow of its halo sending humanity to its knees in worship. Although, he was sure having Wilhelmina sit between them would dilute the experience somewhat.  
  
  
“I must admit, Miss Coke, the opera is certainly not my forte of knowledge,” he replied to the young woman. “However, I did see a rather beautiful production in Milan a few years ago, by a composer called Verdi, I believe.”

  
  
The Duchess snorted. Alfred wasn’t quite sure what part of Drummond’s response earned her disapproval. There were certainly many parts that he could imagine her being disagreeable to. Miss Coke however was practically yelping in delight, “Oh Mr Drummond, you’ve visited Italy?” she asked excitedly, “Please do tell us all about it. I would love to see the country!”

  
  
“It was a family trip and a delightful one; it really is the most beautiful country,” Drummond responded. To Alfred, it almost felt like he was holding back. A slight mask had appeared on the other man’s face that he didn’t quite recognise.

  
  
“Oh, how wonderful,” Wilhelmina continued to enthuse, “It must be the loveliest place, with all the architecture and the art. You always read about how romantic it is.”

  
“Wilhemina!” the Duchess warned.

  
“I’m sorry, Aunt, but I’m just so excited to hear. Was it just the most romantic place, Mr Drummond?”

  
  
“It was certainly stunning, Miss Coke, but I think it’s the people that make a place romantic, not the place. Don’t you agree, Lord Alfred?”

  
  
There it was again. That mischievous face, that look that told Alfred, the teasing was back in full force. How could a face look so beautifully innocent, like a sculpture of a cherub and look so salacious all at the same time. Why would he ever wear a mask when this was the true face of beauty?  
  
  
“Well, Mr Drummond,” Alfred replied after a short pause. “I can’t say I’ve ever read a truly emotional verse about a city, so perhaps you are quite right. Poetry is after all synonymous with romance and love. Shakespeare wrote his sonnets for someone, after all, not somewhere.”

  
  
“Oh, I do enjoy when you read the sonnets, Alfred,” Wilhelmina gushed. “They make for such glorious after dinner entertainment. Do you have a favourite sonnet of Shakespeare’s Mr Drummond?

  
  
With this, the Duchess gave an almighty tut and bristle at the offending subject matter, not letting Alfred hear Drummond’s response, “Enough with this conversation, child. It is certainly not appropriate for a journey with mixed company!”  
  
  
With that, the coach grew silent again and Alfred expected it wouldn’t be long before the Queen would request a break from travelling in the coach ahead of them. Wilhelmina had gone back to gazing out the window and the Duchess has seemingly started to doze off again. He could feel Drummond looking at him. He just knew; it was as if he was trying to get his attention and he just had to think, want and desire it to have it fulfilled. He turned his head slightly round so the whole coach was in his view. He watched as Drummond very deliberately started to tap against the side of the coach again, not in any rhythm, just one tap after the other. Alfred’s brain had started counting them before he realised and until the other man stopped and drew his hand back. Eighteen, he had counted. That was Drummond’s answer.

 

 


	7. Stone Cold Crazy (Part 2)

The rest of the long carriage ride passed with a relaxing hum. During the second half of their journey, he noted Drummond had started to rest his head ever so slightly to the side and gently lower his eyelids. Although Alfred himself was quite tired, he couldn’t bear to fall asleep. The sight of Drummond at rest was quite glorious. He felt he could really look at him, take in every freckle, every random curl of his hair, every pink tone of his lips. The guilt of the voyeur was hidden down deep, instead he relished this opportunity as one that didn’t often present itself. It was like studying a painting or a statue, forever still, and every imperfection and curve beaming out with resolve. 

 

The party had arrived at Chatsworth House and been met graciously by the Duke of Devonshire. Pleasantries had been offered all around and they had been shown to their rooms to refresh a little after their arduous journey. Alfred berated his mind for cursing the fact that Drummond was placed in another part of the building. It shouldn’t matter where his bedchambers were. There was just a toxicity of excitement in the air though; having Drummond within the same building during the night, just a breath away.

 

After a short time, all the guests were invited for a tour of the grounds. The group was led at the front by Victoria and Albert, cheerfully chatting away with the Duke. It was not only the Queen who was talking pleasantly, even the Prince had a keen eye for the designs and was regaling the other man with questions. Alfred found himself walking at a rhythmic pace with Drummond, both slowly weaving through the pack to stand together. While he was certain that the gardens were beautiful, that clearly wasn’t where his attention lay. 

 

Drummond looked much brighter and energised after his short respite. When the coach had arrived at their destination, he looked a little crumpled, the evidence of slumber surrounding his eyes and a warm blush to his cheeks. Alfred had never seen the younger man look anything less than perfectly presented in his company. There was something extremely endearing about Drummond when he was less than impeccably poised; when he was quiet and calm. He looked younger, less battered down by daily life. He was positively delectable.

 

Suddenly Victoria stopped and turned to address the group, pointing to the flowers in front of her. “Oh, it looks exactly like my beautiful pink hyacinth plant at the palace!” she exclaimed, gleefully. “They could almost be twins. How extraordinary!” 

 

Once she had spent a few moments of her time dazzled by the similarity of the two plants, Victoria led the group on, each member commenting to their nearest companion about the flowers on the plant. Alfred noticed that Drummond was now walking slightly in front of him, drifting closer towards the hyacinths. His heart leapt a little, as he knew what the other man would do, thrilled that he remembered their teasing and their game from the palace. He just couldn’t believe that Drummond would have the audacity to do it in front of the Queen’s nose.

 

Alfred held his breath as Drummond started to saunter past the flowers. He almost started to think that maybe he had got it wrong, maybe Drummond was genuinely interested in the flowers and had forgotten their game linked to the horrendous palace plant. Very quickly and purposefully, the politician threw out his right hand and picked a flower off the top of the plant, immediately replacing his hand behind his back. He mischievously started to twirl the flower between his fingers, taunting Alfred with his stolen contraband.

 

Drummond turned his head around to glance at Alfred, a beautiful smirk filling his face. He was clearly proud of his accomplishment and wanted to gain his accomplice’s approval. Alfred placed a serious look on his face and tutted in mock disapproval, causing Drummond’s smile to grow even further. He was now practically walking backwards, still twisting and turning the flower nimbly in his hands. 

 

In hindsight, Alfred thought it was entirely his own fault he didn’t notice what was happening in front of both men, with Drummond’s head and body still turned in Alfred’s direction. However, he was so focused on the other man’s beaming face that he failed to notice that the group in front had paused their perusal of the garden. That was until a voice rang out clear.

 

“Mr. Drummond?” Victoria called, requesting the attention of the man. Upon hearing the monarch’s voice, seemingly out of nowhere, Drummond came to an abrupt halt, turned himself the correct way around, just short of stepping on the queen’s toes. He was now standing closer to the monarch than was possibly appropriate and quickly stood up straight and clasped his hands behind his back. The young man now looked quite formal, despite the fact he was looming over Victoria at an alarming proximity. 

 

When Alfred heard the monarch’s voice, which had sucked him out of his revere of Drummond’s features, he stopped suddenly, practically falling against the man in front. He wasn’t quite as swift to stand to attention as Drummond was, but he felt beholden to join his co-conspirator. Quickly, he stood arm to arm with Drummond, clasping his hands behind his back, trying to look responsible and professional in front of his queen.

 

“Mr Drummond,” Victoria continued, seemingly unaware or uninterested by the two gentleman lingering on top of her skirt hem. “Could you please come and tell the Duke about the plantations at Kew. You described them most magnificently last week.”

 

Drummond nodded and seemed to relax his shoulders. “Of course, Ma’am,” he replied. As Victoria started to step away and expected Drummond to walk with her, Alfred felt soft skin touch his hand. At the sensation, he unfurrowed his palm. He felt something delicate and cool be placed there gently. He closed his hand up slightly to protect his cargo.

 

When Drummond stepped in stride with Victoria, Alfred brought his hand round to the front and uncurled his fingers. Laying in the middle of his hand, nestled into his life-line, was the pink flower, looking only slightly dishevelled considering its plight. Alfred picked it up by its stalk, looking upon it as though individual and not as though there were many more of its kind just a few steps away.

 

“Lord Alfred, I had no idea you enjoyed flower pressing,” a voice next to him chattered. He had completely forgotten that Miss Coke was lingering at the back of the group. Thankfully, the Duchess had been so exhausted by the journey, that she had retired for the afternoon. Wilhelmina had clearly not seen Drummond’s thievery, nor the escapade that followed.

 

“I wonder if the Duke has a presser we may borrow. I am quite proud of my one at the palace, but it is obviously not suitable for transportation,” she continued, oblivious to the true purpose of Alfred’s picked flower.

 

“I suppose it wouldn’t be, Miss Coke,” Alfred responded, wondering if for the next few years he now had to present the façade of enjoying flower pressing. Wilhelmina bent slightly forward to look at the pink petals, gazing down her nose and slightly scrunching her forehead.

 

“I must say, Lord Alfred, you haven’t picked an ideal example,” she noted knowingly. “This is far too crinkled, and you haven’t got much of the stalk there. Although, perhaps the hyacinth plant this was picked from isn’t very appropriate for pressing. I’ve noticed the Queen’s plant at the palace is also looking quite unwell and lacks many flowering buds.”

 

“I can’t say I’ve noticed, Miss Coke,” Alfred responded in a clear lie. He looked at that plant every day. It had quickly gone from his least favourite decoration in the gardens to perhaps his most loved item in the palace.

 

Wilhelmina continued to stick close to Alfred’s side during the rest of the walk in the grounds, explaining the best posies for pressing and chatting about the gardens. Unusually, he didn’t mind too much. Drummond had been commandeered by the queen and Miss Coke’s mutterings were not able to distract him. He continued to watch Drummond, talking so confidently. Alfred had long since placed the cerise flower carefully in his pocket.

 

 

By dinner, the Duchess had felt thoroughly rested, though to Alfred, it seemed like her mood had only mildly improved. He was disappointed to not be sitting next to Drummond at dinner, but the circular nature of the table and the small size of the party, still made it feel like an intimate occasion. Everyone had thoroughly enjoyed their excursion into the grounds and marvelled at the beauty of the gardens and the fountains. They were now quite famished and ready for their meal.

 

With the serving of the main course, there was a chatter of delight at the delicious food served for the occasion. Talk soon turned to the gardens with Albert describing in great detail the construction and engineering of the fountains. They were joined by Major Vernon and his wife for dinner, and they too seemed fascinated by the designs within the grounds.

 

“And Duchess, you must allow me to guide you round the gardens in the morning,” the Duke said, turning the conversation to his guest. “I’m so pleased you are now feeling quite rested from your gruelling journey.”

 

“We did not take as many breaks from travelling as was required,” the Duchess complained, slightly turning her eyes towards Victoria. “It was completely impossible to relax and recuperate during the journey at all.”

 

Instinctively, Alfred side-eyed Drummond, who while outwardly looked like he was enraptured by cutting through the gristle of his meat, clearly had the corners of his mouth turned up by the Duchess’ comments.

 

“Well, I’m sure with the company in the coach, you must have had been entertained by scintillating conversation,” the Duke responded, trying to maintain an air of positivity in the discussion.

 

Before the Duchess could mutter her disapproval at that, Wilhelmina spoke up. “It was delightful to have Mr Drummond as our guest, I must say.”

 

“I’m sure, Miss Coke. Mr Drummond held a very captive audience in the gardens this afternoon,” the Duke replied, and Alfred noticed Drummond looked in equal parts proud and embarrassed at the compliments. He really was the strangest creature.

 

“It was so nice to have a variety in conversation, wasn’t it Lord Alfred? Mr Drummond was telling us all about his visit to Italy,” Wilhelmina continued, before Alfred could respond to her comment.

 

There was a clear muttering of interest at the news of Drummond’s travels. The whole table seemed so enraptured by this young man, that Alfred almost felt a pang of jealousy. Drummond was his to enjoy; he could understand the magnetism of the boy though. If he could see it, then others must as well. Growing up with siblings, and through his career he felt he was a noble man, but with Drummond he just felt like being selfish. He didn’t want to share him with anyone.

 

“Did you visit Rome, Mr Drummond?” Mrs Vernon asked, her first contribution to the conversation. “I must say the Sistine Chapel was a highlight of my time there.”  
Drummond politely chewed down his mouthful of food, quickly nodding during the silence, “I must agree. The Last Temptation was completely heavenly.”

 

Alfred noticed that Drummond seemed to glance across to him at that moment. He seemed a little masked again, not quite the person he recognised when they were alone. Alfred wasn’t sure if the look his way was a plea for help, or a slight tease, but he decided he had been too absent in the conversation anyway. “I hear the composition of the figures is quite stunning in person,” he interjected.

 

“Flesh!” the Duchess scalded out, causing Major Vernon to lose the grip on his fork. “Utterly tasteless in its conception and lack of concealment.”

 

“I find I may have to agree with the Duchess,” Victoria spoke out. “I would rather have my paintings truer to scripture. Although, I must say the idea of visiting Italy again does intrigue me. Though, I’m quite sure they don’t have fountains anywhere near as glorious as the ones we’ve seen today, Duke.”

 

As the conversation moved back to the gardens, Alfred couldn’t but help study Drummond. He admired the way he gave his views, though he must have known the reception they would receive. He continued to surprise him; he would not have thought that Drummond would have such strong feelings towards art. Though reflecting back, he had found him studying some of the paintings in the palace. He felt a little embarrassed now, just assuming that Drummond was delaying time in the hopes that he may meet with Alfred. He now found himself wanting to question the other man more; to sit and debate the beauty of art and its meaning.

 

 

Dinner passed with a continuation of the jovial conversation. The group were in high spirits and relished in the wonderful meal provided for them. The spirited times continued after dinner as the Duke and Duchess of Devonshire made sure to entertain their important guests. After the Vernon’s had returned home, the Duchess of Buccleuch soon announced her retirement for the night and even Miss Coke was feeling the exhaustion from the journey. Victoria, Albert and their gracious hosts soon followed suit. That left Alfred alone with Drummond.

 

It was certainly not a rare occurrence for the two men to spend an evening alone, enjoying a drink in the drawing room before Drummond left the palace. This felt quite different. There was no where for him to go. They would both be sleeping within the same building. They were not constrained by the etiquette of when a private secretary to the prime minister should leave the palace. Although he recognised that it would be completely unacceptable for them to sit up all night in this room, there was a lack of urgency that made Alfred enjoy the moment that much more.

 

Quite unexpectedly, Drummond placed his glass down and stood up. He stopped a minute as if in contemplation, and Alfred wondered If he had quite forgotten where he was. He turned around his head and looked down at his drinking companion.

 

“The moon is quite bright in the sky, Lord Alfred,” Drummond said, his voice strong and intoxicated. “I should think the gardens look even more beautiful under its light.”

Without even questioning it in his head, he stood up, close to Drummond. “Well then,” he said with a hint of imp in his tone, “It would be a shame to pass up this fleeting opportunity.”

 

He patted Drummond on the shoulder, signalling him towards the door and the two men strode down the hallway at a quick marching pace. One of the servants gave them a slightly nervous look, as if not sure whether to stop and question why the guests were storming through the house. Alfred just gave a smile and a nod and hoped that was enough to placate the man.

 

Once outside, he found that Drummond had been absolutely right. The moon was a as clear as Alfred had ever seen it, lighting the sky and showing off the stars as its prize. The cobalt hue made the celestial body seem close, as though if he could run far and fast enough he would reach the surface. Its glow was inviting and hypnotising and added an eerie permission to the evening.

 

Drummond was striding ahead, clearly having a set destination in his mind. Alfred was accepting to follow wherever he led him. There was an unspoken trust that only existed between true kindred spirits. He seemed determined and Alfred was drawn to this side of Drummond, lured in towards the certainty. The large quantity of wine the Duke had issued upon them at dinner may be a catalyst for this feeling. The fact was that he would be willing to jump in Charon’s boat and be delivered to the other world, should Drummond request it of him.

 

Presently, Drummond stopped and removed his jacket in front of the most magnificent fountain they had seen that afternoon. He set it down upon the grass and lowered himself onto it. Placing his arms on the ground behind him to keep himself upright. Alfred could sense that perhaps the alcohol had gone to Drummond’s head too, sensing a little liberation of his demeanour that was restricted during dinner. Alfred looked around a little, somewhat nervous that the twitchy servant may have followed them out. He then proceeded to remove his own jacket, place it on the ground next to Drummond and then sit on the ground, mirroring the other man’s stance.

 

He followed Drummond’s gaze towards the fountain. The glorious moon was reflected in the pool, a convincing replica of the real thing. How easy it would seem to dive in to the cooling water in the hopes to catch it. How disappointing it would be to realise that it was just an illusion; a trick of the mind. Something that outwardly looked real but fell through your hands when held on too tight.

 

While Drummond seemed perfectly content to stare at the mirage before him, Alfred was conscious of the silent thickness of the air. All was completely quiet around him and he was hyper-aware of his own breathing. The fact that his heart was beating faster than he thought it should, for just sitting in the garden. Fearful that Drummond may hear it, he decided it was best to break the night and start a discussion he wanted to have from earlier.

 

“Tell me about Florence,” Alfred enquired.

 

He could almost sense Drummond’s ears prick up, and the relaxed salient state he had been in seemed to vanish in an instance. His arms had tensed up and he turned to Alfred, eyes so wide, the moonlight was visible within them. They seemed darker than usual, flecks of gold and green disappearing to appear abyss like.

 

“What?” Drummond questioned harshly. Alfred thought that he’d never heard his tone so strange, so cold or foreign. He would have thought that Drummond would enjoy this conversation, not become so masked, so resistant to him. It was something that had been happening all day, and he started to wonder whether this side had always been there. Had he been so drawn in and mesmerised that he missed the danger signs calling out?

 

“Florence,” Alfred repeated, hoping to explain himself a little further, “Surely you visited it when you were in Italy?”

 

Drummond’s whole body seemed to shapeshift again as his hands realised their placement on the ground and he dropped down to lay on his back, letting out deep laugh. Alfred too, couldn’t help let out a chuckle, confused by this man in front on him that seemed to be so caught up with the chasm of division within his own mind. He made a note to ask the Duke for the name of the wine they had been plied with.

 

“It was a wonderful place,” Drummond responded, closing his eyes for a second as if to transport himself back there. “You would like it.”

 

“Being an appreciator of Michelangelo’s work, I assume you saw his statue of David?”

 

“It was glorious, Alfred,” he responded notably forgetting formality for a brief second. “He seemed to have such an understanding of the human form. Of its humanity, it’s flaws and failings, as well as its intrinsic beauty.”

 

“I saw an angel in the marble and carved until I set it free,” Alfred quoted. “I wonder what it must be like to see beauty hidden among layers. To see something’s true form wrapped underneath a set stone. Then have the talent, permission and power to release it; to show what it really is to the whole world.”

Drummond then scrabbled his arm around on the ground beside him, picking up an object and holding it in Alfred’s direction. “So, what could this be?” he asked purposefully. 

 

“This small, insignificant pebble with such a controlled purpose in this world. Surely it can’t be more than we see here.”

 

“Perhaps,” Alfred answered, thinking through the prospect, “That little pebble is capable of reaching the stars.”

 

Drummond seemed content with Alfred’s answer, but continued looking at the stone as if to ask its opinion. As if a thought was gnawing at his mind, he looked up at the fountain and back down at the stone. Drummond stood up, drew his hand back and threw the pebble towards the fountain. It hit the edge of the water, bounced once, then twice, before landing forever in the reflected image. It hadn’t hit the stars, but it had landed on the moon.

 

Smiling down at Alfred, Drummond proceeded to search around in the grass and find another stone to repeat his actions. The younger man seemed so merry in his activity, that Alfred couldn’t help but participate. He fumbled around on the ground next to him, picking up a handful of stones, stood up and started to skim the pebbles next to Drummond.

 

They happily continued with their quest, until Drummond reached down to pick up his next stone. With an audible groan, he quickly retreated his hand and drew it to his chest. From his placement, Alfred could see something start to drip off the other man’s fingers. The light making it look seemingly like water drops. It was only Drummond’s grimace that made him realise it was blood.

 

“Drummond?” Alfred questioned, dropping his pebbles and approaching the other man, “What ever have you done? Let me see?”

 

The other man seemed reluctant to relinquish his limb, still holding it close to his body. “It’s fine,” he responded to Alfred, his mouth moving into a small pout that Alfred found almost delightful in its immaturity.

 

“Oh for heaven’s sake,” Alfred said, and strode towards Drummond and grabbed his wrist, trying to not to let his body shake at the feeling of his skin. Drummond had stopped his resistance and let his fingers be uncurled by a patient hand. Alfred noted that in his palm the offending stone still resided, and he took it in his own hand and threw it towards his jacket.

 

“It’s just a scratch,” he told Drummond, which seemed to make the other man wrinkle his forehead.

 

“It wounded me, Lord Alfred,” he responded, but with just a hint of humorousness. “That was not a pebble destined for beauty, but one set to destroy me.”

 

Alfred huffed at the younger man’s melodramatic speech and lent down to reach for something from his jacket. He returned to his upright state, continued his hold on Drummond’s wrist and then guided him encouragingly towards the fountain.

 

“Well, perhaps the pebble was trying to unpeel your true form rather than the other way around,” Alfred said, dipping Drummond’s hand in water. He noted the discolouration seemed to turn the reflected moon red for just a moment, changing its tenor. He checked the sky to make sure the genuine moon was still there beaming down its cool colours.

 

He probably waited a moment or two too long to release Drummond’s hand, using this opportunity to grasp on to it in a way he had only imagined before; in a way that plagued his dreams. They were always vivid but lacked this tangibility. When he was sleeping he didn’t ever recall feeling the other mans’s blood pumping though his arm in a rhythm that was matching his own heartbeat. The little details made this feel real; the slight prickle of the fair hairs, the softness of the silky skin and the muscle that felt solid and firm in his fingers.

 

He gently lifted Drummond’s wrist from the water, turned over his hand and wrapped his handkerchief over the wound, tying it off to seal up the cleaned scrape. “There,” Alfred commented, “Good as new.”

 

Drummond examined the newly repaired appendage, stroking the thumb of his other hand along the material. “Well,” he said with a sigh, “I’m just thankful it’s not my writing hand.”

 

Alfred shook his head good humouredly at his friend. This strange man in front of him, who looked like he could take on the world one minute and then sulk like a child the next. It was sometimes such a contrast to his own middling character, he wondered if Drummond got bored of his attentions. 

 

There was something different today about Drummond, something he was keeping concealed, Alfred was sure of that. But even then, he couldn’t have minded, delighted to just sit under the moonlight with true beauty.

 

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

Alfred had soon left the Duchess after her warning to him about Drummond. He hadn’t needed to hear it, though he knew what she was saying had more than a ring of truth. He wanted away and had made his excuses and returned to his bedroom. As soon as he closed the door behind him, he headed straight for his wardrobe.

 

He tried to ignore his reflection as he opened the door, but it was too difficult to avoid. He looked ragged, a distorted version of himself, like a clay model that had been manipulated before hardening properly. He threw open the door quickly, as if to dispel the mocking of the looking glass, and dropped to the floor, scrabbling around for something in the bottom of the wardrobe.

 

His hand found what it was looking for and pulled out a small box. He gingerly lifted the lid. He carefully flew his fingers through the items there, before his hand recognised what it was looking for. He pulled out an old piece of material and unwrapped it. Within it contained a small, sharp stone, with a cracked surface that was stained in red. He gripped the stone in his hand, gently rubbing at it, the dried blood slightly flecking off and littering Alfred’s palm. With his other hand he reached into his pocket and searched for the pebble that had got stuck in his shoe earlier. He placed both stones in the material, wrapped them up and put them back in the box. 

 

Just before he closed the lid, something caught his eye. He pulled out a small brown paper packet and emptied the contents into his hand. It was a pink, pressed hyacinth. He smiled, in spite of himself, at the memory. He stopped his movements and carelessly dropped the flower. Every time they walked past the plant, they had to remove a flower, that was the rule. He had failed to do so on his way out that evening to Ciros. It panicked him, the breaking of the procedure, the silent promise he and Drummond had made, through all their teasing.

 

Alfred quickly closed up the box and put it back in his wardrobe. He left his room and hurried downstairs and through the palace. Adrenaline was once again cursing his veins and he was furious with himself for forgetting about the hyacinth. As he went through the door, the deep chill of the evening hit his cheeks, but this only made him angrier. All the emotions that he had felt this night past, the culmination of years of frustration and wonting actions. Fury at what had happened to Drummond. Madder still that he be turned away from the hospital, like a perfect stranger. Rage at how the Duchess had spoken to him, like their relationship was a whim that could be easily thrown away and forgotten.

 

He approached the hyacinth bush, with its mocking, garish pink boldness; turning its heads away from him in rejection. He reached out and picked a flower from the top. It did not snuff out the feeling of anguish that he had hoped it would. Again, he picked another, fiercely this time, and then another, until the ground was covered in petals and the green shone through, bare and vacant; confused over its spilt blood.

 

“Lord Alfred,” a voice gently called, and he turned to see Cyril standing at the doorway, looking unsure how he should approach him. “The Queen would like to see you.”

**Author's Note:**

> Next: What will happen with Drummond? Will he survive?*
> 
> (*Of course he will, I'm not a sadistic monster. How could anyone kill off that face?)
> 
>  
> 
> -Also, in my head Drummond's a little younger than Alfred. Not a lot at all, just a little.
> 
> -Apologies for any errors, historical or otherwise. I'm just trying to fit in with the ethos of the show ;P


End file.
